


Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

by doctorziegler



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (sort of and REALLY MILDLY at that), Body Horror, Bulges, Choking, Coughing, Emetophilia, Established Relationship, M/M, Monster Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Monsters, Spit Kink, Teeth, Vore, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorziegler/pseuds/doctorziegler
Summary: When Reaper asks his partner-in-crime, Jesse McCree, to smuggle him onto an aircraft, McCree doesn't think he meansliterally.... Actually, the smuggling isn't all that bad— it's the getting Reaper backoutagain.





	Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

**Author's Note:**

> hey, who knows, mcreaper got me exploring all sorts of weird kinks i never thought i'd be into ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> UPDATE: this fic got [ART](http://squidbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/164108071161/im-kinda-a-slut-for-this-fic-and-this-type-of) !! by the awesome [squidbiscuit](http://squidbiscuit.tumblr.com/) and, y'all, it's so G O O D.
> 
> [ [twitter](https://twitter.com/heatvisions) / [nsfw twitter](https://twitter.com/DOOOMZO) ]

"You're _sure_ this'll work? Hundred percent, no doubts, _what_ soever?"

Gabriel snorted dismissively, the sound quite possibly the least reassuring thing longtime-criminal Jesse McCree'd heard throughout his whole-life's worth of receiving minimal to _no_ reassurance, if any at all, _ever_. 

The look on Jesse's face always-expressive face quite clearly said 'not helpful', though, because the black-clad figure in the shadows moved closer, the motion as weightless as it was effortless. _Yeah, yeah, I get it, yer' a damn ghost now; show-off._

"You'll be _fine_ , McCree," Gabriel said, voice an amused purr from behind his owl-skull mask. "Jesus, I forgot how much you worry about _literally_ everything right before a job; where's this sense of cautionary concern when it actually matters, huh?" Without further warning, 'Reaper' slammed his palm into the very center of McCree's broad chest, closing the already-slight distance between he and the other man in the cramped space of an airport's public restroom stall. "It's _going_ to work. I promise."

"... On your mother's grave?"

"On my mother's grave, _yes_ , Jesse."

Jesse swallowed, peering into the abysmal blackness of Gabriel's eyes behind that mask of white, now more apprehensive than outright nervous. "Right, _sure_ , but— how're we gonna... y'know, _un_ do this, once we're in the air?"

The laugh that tumbled out of Gabriel's monstrous, ear-to-ear grin at the cowboy's innocent inquiry wasn't all that promising, either, at least not insofar as Jesse's well being might've been concerned; that dark chuckle was the very last thing McCree registered, too, before Gabriel startled him by lunging forward, abruptly drowning Jesse in black oil—

Black oil, and impossibility.

* * *

Getting through airport security was easy enough, thanks to the alterations Sombra'd made to McCree's 'official' documents— it wasn't like Jesse 'Sixty-Million Dollar Bounty' McCree was gonna pass any security checkpoints on his own, after all. Luckily, Sombra had everything all figured out, as usual, and Jesse'd boarded his flight in record time, feeling confident enough in their scheme by then that he'd even stopped for a beer or two (or, the better half of baker's dozen, but, hey, who was countin'?) along the way.

He felt...  _peculiar_ , to say the _very_ fucking least, lugging Reyes'— _Reaper's..._ what? _Essence_? Around, inside his damn guts, the pressure of it— _him_ — spreading from the base of his throat to the pit of his stomach, making him feel stuffed too full _and_ ravenously hungry, simultaneously, in ways Jesse hadn't ever quite experienced before.

By the time he was knocking back his fifth beer, Jesse felt like he'd made a mountain out of a molehill; maybe smuggling your terrorist-classified boss onto a plane by literally swallowing him whole wasn't actually as traumatic an experience as Jesse'd initially assumed it would be.

Hell, it wasn't like Gabriel didn't fuck Jesse half-blind and _wholly_ -dumb in all manner of bizarre ways, these days— those inky-black tendrils had dragged Jesse to the edge of his sanity on many an occasion, and stuffing all that Reaper 'sludge' down his throat in preparation for this mission hadn't been all that bad, anyway, in retrospect.

Although, _maybe_ that was the booze talking— or, maybe, what it _really_ was was his good pal, that age old, Blackwatch-induced _Stockholm_ _Syndrome_ , and maybe he finally, _truly_ couldn't even tell the difference between trauma and pleasure anymore.

 _Now **ain't** the time for that deep introspective bullshit, McCree,_ the cowboy reminded himself, making his way into the airplane at long last, the only carry-on 'luggage' on his person unbeknownst to all passengers, save him. _You're about to smuggle a legally dead man thirty-five thousand feet into the air, so quit yer' mopin', and get a damn move on._

And so, as always, Jesse McCree did what he did best:

He followed the orders of madmen.

* * *

The first hour of the flight was as mundane as was to be expected of flying coach, _and_ as uncomfortable, for a man of McCree's size. Luckily, he'd gotten the aisle seat, which meant both that he had somewhere to stretch his legs out when need be, and that the quaint airplane lavatory was about as easily accessible as humanly possible.

Which was, of course, extremely important, considering that around the hour-and-a-half mark, Jesse felt Reaper rapidly growing restless, twisting and stretching around inside of him.  _Christ_ , but if it didn't hurt like a bitch, and Jesse didn't know how much more of this abuse he could take before his discomfort would become outwardly obvious, maybe even suspicious. Sure, he could chalk it up to altitude sickness for the time being, but that would only work as a temporary cover for however long it'd take him to start spitting up black  _goop._

Then, mass hysteria would handle the rest, running its course until Jesse was either tossed out the airlock in a fit of panic— or _shot_ , for similar reasons.

Of course, Reyes _himself_ would live to fight another day, but McCree wasn't lucky enough— or _un_ lucky enough, as might have been Gabe's personal opinion on the matter— to have achieved literal immortality quite yet. 

So, after excusing himself to the elderly couple he'd been making small-talk with as politely as possible (accompanying hat-tip and all), Jesse stumbled into the restroom, locking the door behind him and immediately throwing up the glaringly red 'NO VACANCY' sign. 

"Fuck's sake, Reyes, thought ya' said this was s'posed to be _easy_ ," Jesse hissed, throwing himself over the sink with a desperation he hadn't even had set in yet. "Reyes— _Gabe_ , that— it hurts; shit, Gabe, this hurts so _bad_ , damn bastard; _hell_."

As Jesse lifted the hem of his t-shirt, the thick ooze in his guts sloshed to and fro, Reaper reshaping himself into what initially felt to be a mass of tendrils before becoming only one, instead, much bigger than any of the others had been previously. It felt like he'd swallowed a _snake_ , or a hungry, demanding parasite, deep in the recesses of Jesse's body, desperate for release. With his torso now exposed to the open air, shirt tossed aside, Jesse was forced to see— to actually have no choice but to _acknowledge_ Reaper's body inside of him, Jesse's stomach visibly distending with every move he— _it_ made, almost as if feeling its way around, learning the curves and angles of Jesse's body from the damn _inside_.

 _He's like a goddamn dog, twirlin' 'round, makin' himself as comfortable as can be before layin' down for the night,_ Jesse thought, examining his bloodshot eyes in the mirror, the sickly sweat-sheen on his skin, the tremor in his hands.

"You're gettin' outta there, boss," Jesse instructed, hardly able to recognize the reflection staring back at him, his words slurred, vision already beginning to tunnel. " _Now_." After all, who knew what manner of damage this could do to do a human body, long-term? Gabriel all but _ate_ people to survive, these days, and Jesse'd be damned— pardon the 'God'-awful pun— if he allowed himself to become just another soul in Reaper's proverbial purgatory.

Besides, Reyes had already laid claim to him, heart, soul, and everything in between long, _long_ ago.

With nothing more useful nearby than what he currently had on his person, Jesse forced two fingers into his mouth, relaxing his jaw as best he could to accommodate the uncomfortable stretch of joints and knuckles. He'd _never_ gagged quick and easy, had long ago learned how to take this kind of pressure against the back of his throat, tickling his uvula without choking; had even taught himself to enjoy it, to associate it with sex, with—

With _Reyes_.

_Fuck it all to hell._

Jesse's dick responded all too quickly to the familiar sensation of unforgiving fingers between jagged teeth, gold and pearl glinting back at him in the mirror. This wasn't the time, was so absolutely  _not_ the fucking time to get a hard-on, not as he could feel the thick, inky substance that made up Reaper's current form sliding back out of his stomach, and once more into his esophagus, its exit entirely unaided by the fingers Jesse'd stuck down his throat. 

It didn't hurt anymore, not exactly, but Jesse's knees threatened to give out from under him regardless, involuntarily collapsing over the tiny sink, forehead colliding with its faucet hard enough that Jesse saw stars. He had no choice but to give up forcibly gagging himself, drool-coated fingers now white-knuckling the sink, knowing full well that Gabriel wouldn't allow him any such ease or comfort, any of that sort of autonomy in this freak-show situation—  _Reaper_ was in charge, of this, of him, of _everything_ , and Jesse almost felt stupid for forgetting that, even if it had been in a moment of panic.

"G— _Ga_ be— boss, pl-pl _ease_ , _out_ , want you out—" 

Speaking, _breathing_ , even thinking coherently in any way, shape, or form was becoming increasingly difficult, Jesse's vision blurring at the edges more and more as Reyes threatened to asphyxiate him from the goddamn in _side_ , his throat blocked by that horrifying substance, the first noticeably black dollop of tainted saliva falling from Jesse's lips. 

Jesse began coughing, _finally_ , his head spinning as he scrambled for his next breath with fight-or-flight desperation, his stomach all but dropping to the floor at the immediate sense of relief that washed over him as Reaper's essence began to spill out of him. Clumsily, Jesse twisted the nearby tap, hoping the sound of running water would muffle at least _some_ of the pathetic, uncharacteristic whimpers he was letting out, as he choked and spat mouthful after mouthful of sludge into the awaiting sink.

The ooze didn't actually taste like anything at all, Jesse became dimly aware of, catching a blurry glimpse of his own reflection as he caught his breath, lips and gums stained black, rivulets of drool and ink hanging from his canines, tongue hanging from his ruin of a mouth like an overheated dog in summertime.

The discomfort in his gut had all but abated, most— if not all— of the pressure within the length of his esophagus, now, lungs burning as Reyes withdrew from him, one torturous fluid ounce at a time.

Worst of all was that, despite all this pseudo-torture, Jesse was _still_ hard as a rock, cock straining against his zipper, scarcely even aware of when, exactly, he'd even begun lazily palming at it.

"I knew you were into erotic asphyxiation, McCree, but, _Christ_ ," Gabriel's singsong-sweet voice caught Jesse wholly unawares, much too distracted by— well, _everything_  that had just happened to notice that the wraith had already partially reformed, just out of Jesse's line of sight. He wasn't...  _'done_ ', yet, Jesse knew, both from the tar still oozing out of his throat, still choking him to blindness every few seconds,  _and_ how frightening, how monstrous the Reaper still appeared:

Too many eyes, mouths, teeth in places there shouldn't ever be, and Jesse wished he wasn't so damn fixated on the fact that Reyes was currently _naked_ , hip cocked and arms crossed as he leaned against the lavatory door. "Getting off on  _this_? _Really_? Huh. Guess you _were_ right, all those years ago, when you promised me it'd _never_ get boring, not with you in my bed."

While Gabriel mused aloud, Jesse slowly, cautiously lowered himself to his knees— his still-unfocused eyes locked on the prize of glistening pearly-whites between Gabriel's legs, the initial shock at how turned-on this whole situation had made him thrown to the wind at the sight of his lover's sex—, he let out something halfway between a cough and a self-deprecating laugh, spewing yet another throatful of ink onto the floor.

"Boss, c'mon; you know me," he implored, a winning grin firmly in place, gold tooth glinting amid blackened fangs, that sultry drawl currently a barely-audible growl from the abuse his throat was _still_  going through, "I ain't _ever_ told a lie, not once in my whole damn life."

As Jesse crawled towards him, borderline-delirious, drooling and fucked-up and _horny_ , every too-wide mouth on Gabriel's body twisted into a smile.

Maybe flying coach wasn't so bad, after all. 

[END]


End file.
